


When Daylight Is Over

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (But He’ll Never Admit It), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maxwell Resists, Poor Banana Bread Just Wants Some TLC, Wilson Is Kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: Birds sang and hid seeds in the lush grass, flowers nodded their pretty heads, and berries glistened on bushes like little confections on display. The day promised, with every incident ray of sun, to be great.“Does anyone know what’s wrong with him?”“Everything.”





	When Daylight Is Over

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the name of a song by Box Of Toys. Inspired by a good friend of mine.

The sun rose over the world, bathing it in yellow toiletry. Everything promised to make a great day: birds sang and hid seeds in the lush grass, flowers nodded their pretty heads, and berries glistened on bushes like little confections on display. That is, until out of a tent crawled a tall, willowy man with a grizzle. He only managed to do so halfway, before collapsing on the ground with a groan.

“Hello, Maxwell,” said a fair little girl. She was plucking petals from a flower that looked like a purple daisy. “What a sickeningly great morning, isn’t it?”

“Good morning, Maxwell,” said another man, flashing his pearly whites — he woke up at the crack of dawn and now happened to pass by with a cart of stones. This one was more on the short side. “You don’t look so good, pal!”

“Shut up, Higgsbury,” snapped Maxwell at the humorist, who was now laughing genially. The older man still lay face-down at the tent’s entrance. “I don’t _feel_ so good.”

“Webber, don’t play with the crockpot!”

“Has there been precipitation? Ugh, I’m all wet with dew…”

Wilson Higgsbury, who had to drop the cart in order to ward Webber off the boiling pots, missed that complaint. Maxwell groaned again and managed to stand up.

Staggering like a drunkard or a very sick man, he headed towards the cooking area. Wilson was chasing the spider-child there, both of them yelling and nickering. “Webber, stop! Get out of here!”

“You’ll have to catch us first, Mister Wilson!” Giggled the boy, maneuvering between the stoves, crockpots and fire pits. The danger of it — Webber could easily stumble and fall, hit his head, overturn a pot and get horribly scalded — made Wilson’s hair curl with horror. Maxwell just rubbed his temples and sat on a log.

“Are you some kind of a babysitter now?” He asked, watching the scurry with a bored expression, until Wilson finally managed to catch the squealing boy. Webber squirmed and aimed at his captor’s chin, but Wilson evaded every blow with great patience. Maxwell couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“A nanny.”

“Shh! Webber- Webber, stop that! Hey, Maxwell, could you look after the soup for a moment?”

“And who’d look after me, huh?” Murmured Maxwell under his breath, but Wilson wasn’t listening, busy with carrying the struggling child away from the risk zone. The older man sighed, taking a spoon and stirring the pot’s contents. Carrots and shams of meat swirled in muddy broth; it neither looked, nor smelled appetizing. As if insulted, the boiling water splashed onto his hand. Maxwell twitched and hissed through his teeth like a very angry catcoon.

The red spot, that pulsated with pain on the otherwise pale skin, didn’t make his mood any brighter.

“Today’s gonna be a terrible day,” he declared. Wilson was playfully wrestling with Webber in the field, making the air ring with laughter. Wendy, — the flower girl, — looked at Maxwell with a small, knowing smile. The former magician shivered and cradled his injured hand.

“Terrible…”

***

Wilson slid next to him, shoving down a plateful of meatballs. Maxwell flashed him an evil eye over a bundle of ice that he held to his cheek, and the shorter man choked.

“Uh,” he said, after he was done coughing. “...You want some?”

“How… generous,” strained Maxwell through gritted teeth and finally turned that seething glare in other direction. Wilson took a breath.

“What happened?”

“I’m not telling.”

A meager man in a bodysuit looked at them gloomily and began sharpening a stick in angry motions.

“Uh...huuhhh…”

“Not. A word.”

The fire crackled benevolently under the dark sky. The air, slightly breezy, was filled with comforting coolness. Everyone was in, or, particularly, around, seemingly calm and content, but suddenly Wilson wasn’t feeling too good about his perfectly shaved chin, full stomach and a new blueprint in mind.

“Did you have a bad day?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” was the curt reply. Wilson kept quiet for a moment, and tried again:

“Were you feeling ill this morning?”

“Oh, so NOW you’re interested?” Spat Maxwell and pointedly turned away. Wilson laid a hand on his shoulder, but the other just shrugged it off forcefully.

“Don’t touch me!”

Someone snickered. Wilson saw that it was Willow — a pyromaniac with greasy bangs and a bad temper. She never got around to forgiving the former demon. They say, two spiders can’t coexist in a jar… Unless one of them is Webber. What a nice laddy.

Maxwell wouldn’t have more of this idle talk and abruptly got to his feet — to storm off to his tent, presumably. Wilson watched him go with a confused, guilty stare, before asking:

“Does anyone know what’s wrong with him?”

“Everything,” said Willow. Wilson frowned at her, but one of the other survivors, an elderly woman, intervened.

“Mister Maxwell has been unbearably foul all day. He’s even threatened to burn one of my works. Wolfgang gave him a lesson. Right, Wolfgang?”

The “reduced” strongman grunted. Wilson raised a questioning brow at her.

“What did a book do to him?” The old lady exchanged a mysterious glance with Wolfgang, but didn’t reply. “Right. Keep your secrets, but please, don’t attack Maxwell. I think he’s been feeling ill…”

“You sure seem to care about that fella, eh?”

“Leave him alöne, Higgsbury. He is weak as a cat and hönestly unwörthy.”

“Mister Wilson, what if he’s ill because of old age? We think it would be good to just let him die in peace, like grandpa!”

“Stop, stop! No one is dying here!” Wilson shook his head as to cut off the onslaught of voices that сrashed over him like a bad tidal wave. The clatter unravelled, and people looked at him in anticipation. Suddenly, a small voice piped in.

“Mr. Higgsbury.”

“Yes, Wendy?” Asked Wilson cautiously. The girl handed him her plate with a couple of meatballs on it.

“Maxwell didn’t eat all day.”

Without further ado, Wilson took the plate and set off.

***

The shorter man pushed the tent flap aside and peeked in.

“Maxwell?”

“Go away.”

“Ah, so you’re awake.”

“I’m not. Go away.”

“Don’t act like a baby…”

Wilson blinked, looking closely. He could barely discern a figure: Maxwell was lying on his back, arms spread wide.

“Are you okay?” Repeated the gentleman stubbornly and began to climb in. Maxwell raised his hand in a warning gesture.

“Higgsbury, God forbid you say something like that one more time, and I will punch you.”

“Fine,” huffed Wilson. He was already feeling around for the other’s face. When he found the mouth, he immediately shut it with a big, juicy meatball.

“Mfff-”

“Wendy said something that’d better not be true. So eat,” muttered Wilson. He waited for the older man to chew up.

“Crude,” hummed Maxwell, but swallowed. “Thank you, I’d rather not.”

“Rubbish. Will you tell me what’s wrong with you already?”

Maxwell kept quiet.

“Fine. Out of curiosity, what did Wickerbottom do to you?”

“I caught her with her nose stuck in the Codex. I think she’s been copying it.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed, ‘oh’. They don’t trust me, Higgsbury. Sometimes I wonder why you do…”

“Shh.”

“What, now you don’t want me to talk? You need to decide on your wishes…” A finger lay on Maxwell’s greased mouth.

“I’m going to try and figure out your malaise myself. Do you have digestive problems?”

“Good guess.”

“So, no. You whined about rain this morning, does it have something to do with humidity? Do your joints ache?”

“I did not-”

“Maybe it has to do with your former ‘lifestyle’...”

“It wasn’t-”

“Do you have hemorrhoids?”

“Higgsbury!”

Having enough practice with Webber, Wilson managed to evade a slap in the face — it only grazed his shoulder. Maxwell sighed and, after hesitating for a moment, turned on his belly. Wilson watched him attentively.

“So it _is_ a rear problem? You can rub in a salve, or put ice on the trouble spot...”

“Shut up, Higgsbury,” hissed Maxwell. It sounded small and almost helpless. “It’s not that.”

“Then, why are you- Oh.”

There was rustling, and Maxwell held his breath. Finally, a cold hand was placed on his spine. He exhaled.

“I don’t know how to do a proper massage, I’m afraid,” apologized Wilson quietly. Without much certainty, he began rubbing the other’s wide back. “Gosh, you’re practically bare bones…”

Wilson was trying very hard, kneading his sore muscles, and the working of those small, diligent hands made Maxwell whimper involuntarily. The shorter gentleman hesitated.

“I’m sorry if it hurts, but it’s supposed to cause some sort of discomfort.”

“Continue,” demanded Maxwell. The short-lived pain purged the ache that has been accompanying him all day. The ache in his back, and the blunt aching of his soul that got food stuck in his throat.

He really hoped Wilson would notice right from the start. Perhaps it was a childish thing to hope for, but the apparent neglect upset and enraged Maxwell all the same.

“I’m sorry,” as if hearing his thoughts, murmured Wilson. His hands warmed up during the work, spreading this warmth throughout Maxwell’s body. The older man was almost lulled to sleep.

“What are you apologizing for, Higgsbury? You did a good job,” he replied dozily. One of the relieving hands began a soothing motion, up and down his back. Maxwell knew that he should had told Wilson to cut it off — it was an appropriate thing to do, but the caress felt nice. Too nice.

His slyness seemed to hit the mark, as Wilson clarified:

“I’m sorry I didn’t pay you proper attention.”

Anger suddenly rose in Maxwell’s chest, and he sat up.

“Am I like one of those kids you need to babysit, to you?”

“No, no! That’s not what I meant!”

“Get the heck outta-”

Wilson hastily got up and tried to place a chaste kiss on the other’s lips. It was truly a desperate measure.

He missed them by an inch.

Maxwell froze. He expected excuses, not a confession. Someone laughed and yelped outside, before everything grew quiet again.

“How?” He finally uttered. He could see Wilson’s eyes glisten hecticly in the almost-darkness. “How did you manage…”

How did you manage not only to forgive, but to love someone who hurt you that badly? Did you forget? Are you blind, are you stupid? How did you manage to find it in yourself to care, despite the hardship, Wilson? Despite the pain?

“I can try that again,” whispered the younger man.

Maxwell chuckled. What a hopeless fool. The confusion in him almost dissipated, making room for an entirely different kind of ache. If Wilson moved past this, he can, too. If Wilson wants to play, they’ll play. Maybe Maxwell could even let him win.

“Oh, please.”

The former magician wouldn’t admit it, but he ardently _wanted_ to lose to that little friend of his. By bell, book and candle.

Their heads met, two silhouettes in the witching hour. The night was very soft, and the faded light of day wasn’t missed once.

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically, the nighttime brought not fear, but relief. Maxwell finished the leftover meatballs in due time.


End file.
